Always
by Daelan
Summary: [[Complete]] Ryomacentric. 'But maybe the hero doesn’t mind. Maybe the hero was tired of standing up there on the pedestal all along, unwilling to relinquish his spot so easily, but needing someone to take over, needing a break from the spotlight.'


_Disclaimer: Prince of Tennis belongs to Konomi Takeshi, not me. Take your lawyers and get out of here._

_A/N: Now, this is a very introspective piece. Sort of a stream-of-consciousness, but not really. It delves into Ryoma's psyche, so Ryoma fans, PLEASE read! Now we proceed to A/N 2._

_A/N 2: WHY DID I WRITE THIS?!?! I don't even KNOW Ryoma's psyche all that well! Haven't watched enough episodes to know!!! All I know is that he's a snarky bastard. -_-;; Gah. Well, hopefully, I'm not too OOC. I don't _think_ it's too bad, but I need you to tell me that… *whistles innocently*_

_A/N 3: There is no A/N 3. Read._

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**Always**

All his life, he'd played tennis.

Maybe that wasn't a very accurate statement. When people say they'd done something all their lives, they don't really mean it. They hardly came out of the womb doing it. He wasn't born holding a tennis racket.

But he _had_ been playing tennis for as long as he could remember. With a father like Echizen "Samurai" Nanjiroh, it was inevitable, really. And all his life – no, for as long as he could remember – he'd been playing tennis. Been trying to beat his father. Been trying to prove that he was better than that old lecher, was more than him, and of course, the best way to do that was to beat him at tennis, wasn't it? So he played.

For a long time, he hadn't managed to score a single point against Nanjiroh. He was no match for him, really. The older man ran him ragged, got all his shots by easily. That rankled – the ease with which he was beaten. Even more determined now, he threw himself wholeheartedly into improving his game. Day and night, he practised. He ate, breathed and dreamed tennis for years.

And still it wasn't enough. He still couldn't get a shot past his old man. But at least their rallies were increasing in duration. It wasn't quite as easy to defeat him as it once had been.

But it was still easy.

He started to watch the way his father played, and began mimicking him. From his Nitoryuu style of playing to his Twist Serve, he copied and perfected them all. He still couldn't get a shot by his father, but it was no longer as easy for his father to get a shot by him.

He ran regularly, to build up his endurance. Sit-ups, push-ups, crunches, shuttle runs, he did them daily. The repetitive training served to drill into his head that he _must_ beat his father one day.

He wasn't sure when it became an obsession. Perhaps it always had been. He didn't enjoy tennis for its own sake, but he kept trying to perfect himself at it just so he could beat his father. Because – that was the most important thing to him.

He won plenty of tournaments. Every game he played, he won. People were in awe of their skills. There was only one person he couldn't beat.

And then they'd moved to Japan. He hadn't been sure about it at first, hadn't been too confident of himself. Then he'd signed up for a competition and all his insecurities had melted away into nothing.

He hadn't managed to play in the tournament after all, but he had played one game – albeit an unsatisfactory one – and also managed to draw the attention of his future coach at the same time.

Joining Seigaku had been a good choice. There was a wide range of playing styles there, and he got to match wits with all of them. Being noticed by his captain and consequently being made a regular was a pure stroke of luck. He'd gotten to test out so many different styles of playing, pitting his skills against all and finding he could survive against them all. So it wasn't that he was a bad player, but just that he wasn't good enough. The drive increased, the need to crush his father completely. It was an almost vindictive pleasure that he derived from the thought.

Yet – he knew he was a long way off.

He'd never expected to lose to anyone other than his father. Playing against Tezuka had been a shock. For the first time in his life, he'd lost. Well and truly. Perhaps in a sense, he'd placed his father up on a pedestal. Something he would strain to attain, but in the meantime, acknowledge that he was less than. No one else, surely, could be above him?

Tezuka was.

His captain had beaten him well and thoroughly, that first time they had played. His shots, all perfectly calculated to make him run around and lose his energy. His Drop Shot, which looked perfectly normal, but didn't bounce. He wasn't able to return them. It was his father all over again. He hadn't liked it overly much, but he hadn't exactly been able to do anything about it. He had been so sure he would win, no matter who it was.

As long as it wasn't his father.

He'd eventually managed to accept the loss and move on. The burning need within him had only grown, and he took Tezuka's words to heart. What he had said about finding another reason for playing hadn't affected him overly much. He wanted to beat his father, and to do so, he would play tennis. There was no other reason for playing. But he would have to develop his own style if he wanted to beat his father, and that he acknowledged.

He trained regularly, increasing his usual daily workouts until he could have given Kaidoh a run for his money in terms of sheer endurance training. His daily workout regime rivalled the snake's, and in addition, he practised harder than anyone else during team practises. On top of that, he played his father almost every night, as a gauge to see how much farther he had to go.

Their matches generally left him exhausted and sweating rivulets. His father always managed to remain calm and composed. And of course, they always ended off by insulting each other.

He developed a strange kind of respect for his father, during those matches. He may look like he lazed around all day, but he obviously did some kind of training in order to keep up his endurance, agility and speed. At the end of any of their matches, it was always he, not his father, who was tired out. The old man still had plenty of life left in him. 

It irked him.

Before the tournament, then. He'd been thinking about what Tezuka had said all day. Then, as night drew near and dusk fell, the sky coloured in brilliant, fading hues of orange and blood, he'd sought out the man who'd sired him. He'd challenged him to a game.

He'd been beaten again, in the end. No surprises there.

But he'd finally gotten a point against his father.

He'd slammed the ball down with such ferocity, accuracy, speed and power, even his father – the man with almost super-human reflexes – could do naught but watch the yellow ball sail by him almost contemptuously. He'd screamed then, in sheer delight, a growing feeling of exhilaration rising up within him. The point hadn't been enough, and he'd still lost, but at least he was improving. He was well on his way to beating his father now, and he knew it.

And his father had smiled at him.

Not a smirk or a leer, but an actual, bright, happy smile. The sort of smile he could never recall being given, a loving smile that said, "I'm proud of you." He'd been a little dazed by that look, and gone to sleep with a smile on his own face.

So maybe his father wasn't all that bad, after all.

And then he started considering the rest of what Tezuka had said.

Beating his father was still his number one priority. It was less of an obsession now, but he still wanted to know he could be better than the other man. But…

It's a difficult thing, in a sense, when your hero, willing or otherwise, falls from his pedestal. You watch in amazement, shock, horror. If you loved the man, you are in shock. If you've always wanted him deposed of, you are still in shock. Because for that split moment there, there is the thought running through your head: "What have I done?"

But maybe the hero doesn't mind. Maybe the hero was tired of standing up there on the pedestal all along, unwilling to relinquish his spot so easily, but needing someone to take over, needing a break from the spotlight. And maybe, when you pull him down from his throne, he'll hand you his crown and thank you.

_The ball bounced precisely on the corner and sailed into fence. Dark eyes tracked its path in disbelief._

_It was absolutely still, the silence only broken by ragged, intermittent gasps._

_"I… did it," Ryoma whispered, racket sliding from his slack grip to hit the ground. On the other side of the court, Nanjiroh picked himself up, still looking at the ball, his back to his son._

_"Game set and match to Echizen Ryoma," he said calmly, brushing himself off. Ryoma started, staring at him in confusion. Nanjiroh turned around then, grinning widely at Ryoma. "Good job, kid!"_

_Ryoma froze for a second, a smile threatening to break out on his face. Instead, he bent down to pick up his cap, dusting it off, his head lowered. "Che. Don't call me a kid," he muttered._

_And his father was suddenly next to him, messing up his hair with an idiotic grin on his face. "Hey, hey, you finally managed to beat me, kid! So what's next on the agenda?" he asked, a goofy grin on his face._

_Ryoma squirmed away. "Stop doing that!" he yelled. Nanjiroh's smile faded._

_"Ne, Ryoma," he said, voice serious. Ryoma looked up at him, startled. "All your life, you've wanted to beat me, ne? Well, you've done that. So what now?"_

_Ryoma considered his words. "I'll keep playing," he finally said. "I think I'd like to take Seigaku to the nationals again this year. Like Tezuka-buchou would have wanted."_

_Nanjiroh smiled. "That's good," he said simply._

_"Aa," Ryoma said, uncomfortable with how serious his father was suddenly being. He picked up his racket and turned to leave. "Besides, I haven't wanted to beat you _all_ my life."_

_"Eh?" Nanjiroh watched in confusion as his son strode away towards the house. Eventually, he returned to his side of the court to pick up the balls, and thoughtfully returned home as well. What his son had meant by that…_

_No, not all his life…_

_~fin_


End file.
